


Eighteen

by Lake (beyond_belief)



Category: Jonas Brothers, Kings of Leon
Genre: Alternate Universe, Golf, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-21
Updated: 2012-07-21
Packaged: 2017-11-10 10:43:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/465376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beyond_belief/pseuds/Lake
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Caleb and Nathan are PGA Tour pros, and Nick is the rookie beating them all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Eighteen

**Author's Note:**

> This is set beginning in March of 2011. Nick has only just turned 18 the past September and graduated high school early, in December. 
> 
> I'm sorry for all the golf.
> 
> Somehow I spent three f-ing years writing this ridiculousness (well, on and off) and I cannot believe I actually finished it. It took me so long that I don't even remember all the people I need to thank, so: if you helped me with this at all, in any way - thank you, so much.

1.

Caleb has never even heard of Nick Jonas until the 15th hole at Bay Hill, when Caleb hits it into the trees and ends up with a triple bogey. It's easily his worst play in the tournament so far and all he can do is swear under his breath as he watches his name drop from the top of the leaderboard to third. One bad swing and he's fucked. Nathan takes advantage of his choke, birdies and moves up to lead the field. And then, as Caleb watches on the big screen in the bar (he'd finished his last round earlier for a final of six under par, not bad for an amateur but fucking awful for him), some kid neither of them have ever heard of plays an absolutely flawless final round, and wins.

"Who is that kid?" he asks Jared.

Jared stops staring at the screen, shrugs and looks at the bartender. "Terry, who's the teenager who just ruined Caleb's day?"

"I was going to replace Mom's Buick with the winning share," Caleb moans.

"Ma can still get a new car, shut the fuck up," Jared says. "At least you made it through to Sunday. You're the one who threw up on fifteen. What the fuck was that, Caleb? You never hit it into the trees like that."

Caleb tells him to politely fuck off. Jared's right, though. He can only blame himself. _How many guys don't even make the cut_ , he reminds himself.

Terry uncaps a couple Heinekens for the bar girl who's sidled up. "Kid's name is Jonas, Nick Jonas," he says. "Came outta nowhere, I heard. Swamp in Jersey or something. Barely out of high school. Here on an invite."

"Terry, you're no longer my favorite bartender," Caleb intones. Terry smiles and inclines his head, wipes up the condensation that's dripped down from Caleb's bottle to the top of the bar.

Jared laughs and claps Caleb on the shoulder. "Well, Jonas just got his card, buddy, so we'll be seeing him again."

"I'm guessing I can't claim stomach flu and skip the dinner tonight."

"Nope." Jared says it with a grin.

Caleb sort of wants to punch him, which is uncharitable (since Jared's his brother), unprofessional (since Jared's his caddie), and potentially news-worthy, even if Terry has moved down to the other end of the bar. He checks his impulse. "I'm gonna trade you back to Nathan and keep Matthew," he threatens, but Jared just scoffs and knocks their shoulders together.

On screen, Jonas is shaking hands with the club president. He's wearing strict white, which looks ridiculous, like he's an empty billboard just waiting for sponsors to put their brand all over him. Caleb can't begrudge him the tournament invite. He'd spent his own first two years on the tour worrying that he'd end up back in Q-School.

"Hey," Jared says, his voice serious now. "Are you ready for Redstone?"

The Shell Houston Open is next and Caleb loves the tournament course at Redstone, loves it like he loves a long night with a beautiful woman. It was the look on his face after the first time he'd played it that had caused their momma to say, "He's never marrying, because he's married to a damned rich man's sport."

"I'm always ready for Redstone," he tells Jared. He finishes his beer and stands. "C'mon, if we can't skip the damned dinner, we better get cleaned up for it."

*

  


The dinner is tournament standard but the salmon's perfect and the wine is almost as good, so Caleb's happy, having overcome the desire to beat himself up for yesterday's mistake. He'd rather be out hitting a bucket of practice balls, but a free meal is a free meal. Next to him, the club president's wife is waving her fork in little arcs back and forth, saying something about how he's brought some edge to the normally staid world of professional golf. Caleb isn't sure she's using the right words but he's willing to go along with it. The point she's making is sound. He reads the articles in _Golf_ sometimes; he knows that more people under the age of twenty-five are signing up for instruction than ever before. Hell, Jared's even got a fan club somewhere on the internet.

"I'm just glad that folks find the sport more approachable now," he tells her. It's his standard line for conversations like this one.

Mrs. Club President nods appreciatively. "We've had more membership inquiries in the last six months than in the last two years," she informs him. Then she chuckles and adds, "Not that everyone can afford to play here."

"Um, no ma'm," Caleb answers stiffly. He's relieved when the wait staff starts to whisk their dinner plates away and people begin to stand up. The dessert course is laid out buffet-style, and at least he can mingle with the people he'd rather mingle with; namely his family and maybe that attractive blonde who'd been subtly checking him out from the other end of the table.

He stops to congratulate Nathan, whom he somehow hasn't spoken to since last night, with a hug and a hearty clap on the back. "Sweet play, man," he says.

"You weren't so terrible yourself, except for when you fucked up."

"Still got more firsts than you, buddy." He's got three. Nathan has two.

Nathan shrugs and flashes him what's mostly a grin. "I'd say as family enterprises go, ours is pretty lucrative all around."

"Still waiting for Jared to ditch me and go to college," Caleb says. He sighs exaggeratedly. Nathan pats him on the arm and steps away, in the direction of the girl with the wavy blonde hair that Caleb had been aiming for. "Well, hell," he mutters under his breath, lifting a glass of wine from a a waiter's tray and turning towards the dessert table.

He makes it two steps and someone bumps into him from behind. "Sorry, Mr. Followill, excuse me," the someone says, and steps into Caleb's line of sight. It's the Jonas kid, dressed smartly in dark slacks and a red button-down. Caleb wants to ask if his mom still irons his pants for him, but the answer is probably yes. Dark hair curls over the collar of his shirt and his mouth is funny-shaped. His skin's too pale for golf.

"Don't worry about it, kid," Caleb replies. "Good game. Congratulations."

"Thank you, thank you very much." Jonas is actually blushing. He keeps glancing over his shoulder like he's keeping an eye out for someone. "Um, I'm Nick, by the way."

"Caleb."

"I know; good to meet you. You've been a big inspiration to me and my brothers." He looks over his shoulder again and Caleb wants to ask what the problem is. "Excuse me," Nick says, and slips through a clutch of people off to the left. Caleb can see a middle-aged man approaching, maybe the kid's coach or dad. He shrugs and resumes his path to the dessert table, pausing a few times to shake hands or have a few seconds' conversation with some of the old-timers.

He's standing outside, cupping a lit match to a cigarette, as folks start to trickle out of the club, his brothers and cousin among them. "The truck's loaded up, any time you want to head out," Matthew says, hands stuck in his pockets. Caleb nods around a mouthful of smoke. How he ended up the defacto leader of their band of unlikely sportsmen, he's not sure. He pretty much just goes with the flow.

They'd courted a few unusual endorsements after Caleb had won last year's Open Championship – Budweiser was more than happy to chip in their travel expenses, as long as their sleeves bore an understated advertisement for the beer. He'd dated a couple models, here and there, and Nathan had dated a television actress for a while. It was enough that their faces are in the glossies more than any other golfer besides Tiger, a situation that Caleb has never been entirely comfortable with.

He doesn't want to change the game, he just wants to play it the best way he knows how.

 

 

2.

>   
> 
> 
> _Going in to the Houston Open, all eyes are on rookie Nick Jonas, who came out of amateurville last weekend to win the Palmer Invitational at a stunning fourteen under par, besting odds-on favorite Nathan Followill by two strokes. It's an impressive start, but the pressure has got to be immense for this eighteen year-old. We've all seen guys crumble and choke. Only he knows if he can hold up._ \- Rick Reilly, ESPN.com

  


They're unloading their clubs and luggage at the hotel when a towncar glides up and parks behind them. A man that Caleb recognizes as the guy that Jonas had been avoiding at the Palmer gets out, with Nick behind him.

Nick gives them a small wave, and Caleb slings his clubs over his shoulder and waves back. "Why're you waving at the new kid?" Nathan asks, purposefully hitting Caleb with his duffel.

"'cuz he's the new kid," Caleb says. It's not really an answer. He follows Jared into the hotel, boots seeming loud on the stone floor. They check in and Caleb goes to dump his stuff in his room.

It's a nice room and it has a decent view of the sixth hole. He looks out at it for a few minutes, contemplating the slope of the green. He needs to check the weather for tomorrow again, track down a decent meal. Have a drink or two. Get a good night's sleep, and practice his ass off tomorrow.

Jared texts to say he and Matthew are hitting the Chinese buffet that they'd passed in town, does he want in? Caleb flips open the informational binder and scans the menus for the hotel restaurants before declining.

He lays on the bed and listens to ten minutes of the Weather Channel, then goes down to the Players Grill. He's surprised to find it nearly empty, but then he figures it's on the early side for dinner. "A drink, sir?" the hostess asks, showing him to a corner table. Three tables away, Jonas is sitting alone, angled slightly in the opposite direction.

"Yeah, last time I was here, you had a Napa Zinfandel that was good," Caleb says. Jonas appears to be drinking a Coke, wearing a white t-shirt that looks brand new. Caleb feels like he's spying. They're nearly the only people here.

"Of course."

His wine is delivered by a guy who doesn't look old enough to even be serving it, and when he starts to read the specials, Caleb cuts him off. "I'll have the club sandwich," he says, "and I'll probably be at that table over there when you come back." He hands over the menu and gets up, wineglass in hand.

Nick looks up from his study of the bubbles in his glass. "Hi." He sounds surprised.

"Hey. Mind if I join you?" Nick gestures towards the opposite chair and Caleb sinks down into it. "You looked pretty excited about your soda there," he adds dryly.

"What? Oh. Just waiting for my food, I guess." He shrugs. "I'm not used to this."

"Not used to what, dinner?"

"All of it, really." He makes it sound like a question. "I only played a few amateur tournaments before the Palmer."

Caleb had been tucking his hair behind his ears, and he freezes. "Seriously? Shit."

"Yeah."

"High school team?"

Nick nods. "Private school. Mostly because my coach begged my parents to let me go. My brothers were all home-schooled."

"Is your coach the guy here with you?"

"No, that’s my dad." He looks uncomfortable.

Caleb swirls the wine in his glass, slowly, just once. "He doesn't like you going pro?"

"College would have been a more – acceptable choice. I got him to agree to me taking a year off so that I could play, just to see if I could do it. I'm supposed to start next January." Nick looks down at his hands, then stabs at the ice in the glass with the straw, making a face.

"He didn't expect you to win," Caleb guesses.

"I didn't expect me to win."

"You get two years on the card."

"As long as I play fifteen events a year," Nick says. Caleb nods. "It's not a free pass to play for three years. It's expensive."

"Play like you did last week and you'll pick up some sponsorships – and some serious cash. Trust me, you'll stop thinking of it as expensive. You'll have more money than you know what to do with." He turns his glass a few times, then takes a sip, lets it linger on his tongue for a moment. "Hell, I don’t know why I'm telling you this."

"Because I'm the new kid who doesn't know anything about any of this," Nick replies. There's a bitter note to his voice. "Maybe I should just start school in the fall."

"Look, I don't know what your family stuff is like, dude. All I know is golf. It's all I ever wanted to do and nobody stopped me from doing it, and I got fucking lucky. But I know what it's like to go from zero here to the new poster child for the sport. How many requests for interviews have you gotten?"

"Like, a hundred."

"How many did you do?"

"None."

Caleb nearly chokes on his laugh. "How the hell did you manage that?"

"My dad's acting as my manager. He turned them all down."

"Huh."

Their food arrives and the conversation lapses. Caleb's not sure where they'd been going with it anyway. He's not about to tell Nick to ditch his father and just play golf; he knows life doesn't work like that, even if the kid might need to hear someone say it, even just once. So he concentrates on his sandwich and another glass of wine, and Nick seems focused on his steak.

"I'll get it," Caleb offers when they're done and the bill arrives. He grins at Nick's shocked look, pleased at such a small thing catching the kid off-balance. "Really, it's cool."

"Thank you. Next time, my turn. I insist."

It's then that Caleb figures out what he likes about Nick storming the course in Orlando and blowing everyone away – he's new and shiny. Someone different. Caleb's gotten used to seeing the same people at tournament after tournament; a lot of rounds are the same battle every time and the thrill of going stroke-for-stroke against Donald or Stricker mostly has worn off. And for the most part, the tour is sort of a strange, nomadic family. When you're in a different city nearly every week, you tend to hang out with the people you know. 

"You get a decent tee time for Thursday?" he asks, signing the receipt.

"Nine-fifty. With Mickelson." The kid looks sort of star-struck at the idea of playing with Phil. 

“Relax, Phil's a great guy. He'll have better advice than I do.” Caleb finishes what’s left of his wine and stands up. "And you'll make the cut."

Nick holds out his hand, the clasp firm and dry. "I'm not worried yet," he says, smiling, "but ask me again on Friday. Thanks again for the meal.”

“You bet. See you around.”

*

  


Winning isn't everything, except for when it is. People are always asking him what it's like to play against his brother, if they ever fight. "Sure," Caleb will tell them, "we'll fight all the time, he's still my brother, except on the course, when he's my opponent just like everybody else. And it goes both ways. We both play to win."

What he usually doesn't say, is that playing against Nathan has always been a superb motivator. It makes him want to sharpen his game even further, but only to a point. Because past that mark, Caleb is his own best opponent. If he plays a 69 on the North course at Torrey Pines, he wants to have played a 67.

If there's light, then Caleb nearly always wants a club in his hands. He signs up for practice times at a course before he's even arrived at a tournament. Often for his first practice round, he lightens his club bag past what any pro would do, tells Jared get the fuck out of his pre-game ritual (Jared always asks, like it's an act of courtesy he can't break himself of), and goes out to memorize every detail of the course. There are some things he can't quite map, like wind direction and speed, or the angle of the sun that sometimes breaks sharp over a water hazard to shine into his eyes, but the rest he sets to memory.

*

  


Caleb runs into Nick again early the next morning, both of them loaded down with a bucket of practice balls and heading for the driving range. Nick jerks his chin in Caleb's direction, his mouth set in a firm line, his mind already obviously on the drives he wants to practice.

Caleb nods back and sets up. For the next half an hour, he forgets about Nick. He forgets about everything except for the weight of the driver, the burn of his shoulders, the sharp thwack as club face meets ball. Then his phone vibrates in his back pocket.

"'lo?"

"Is that Jonas kid missing his caddy?" Nathan asks, without so much as a hello.

"What?"

"So me and Matthew went to this mall, right, there's a golf shop here, and there's this dude who looks like I guess Jonas' caddy looked when I saw him for six seconds on television the other day, and he says he bummed a ride here and now he can't find the girl he rode with and I guess he's lost his phone, but you know how reporters are sometimes."

"Oh, right," Caleb says, like anything Nathan just said made any sense. "Lemme ask." He brings the phone down to his hip. "Hey, kid," he calls to Nick, "are you missing your caddy?"

"My brother? He said he was going shopping."

Caleb grins and lifts the phone again. "Sounds like it's him."

"Did he lose his phone again?" Nick asks. He makes a disgusted face. "Jeez."

"Make him get another cell phone while you're there, yeah?" Caleb tells Nathan.

"You bet," Nathan laughs, and then he hangs up.

Chuckling, Caleb slips his phone back in his pocket. "They'll bring him back," he says to Nick, who shakes his head and goes back to his stand.

Caleb grips his club once more, breathing in and out, centering himself again. Then he changes his mind, swaps the driver for a three-iron, intent on finishing the bucket with it.

When he's done, he checks on Nick, who's got about a quarter of his bucket remaining. Caleb leans against one of the support beams for the canopy covering and watches his swing. Nick hits one hard drive after another; his polo is clinging to his lower back with sweat. He doesn't acknowledge Caleb's presence until the bucket's empty.

"Joe's kind of a doofus," is what he says when he finally speaks.

"I was getting that impression."

"Let me see your phone." Caleb hands it over and Nick programs in his number. "Just in case this sort of thing happens again," he says, a sheepish grin on his face.

Caleb can't stop his chuckle. "Do you lose him often?"

"More often than I want to admit."

"That's fucking hilarious," Caleb laughs and sends Nick his number. "Here, here's mine."

"Cool."

They walk back to the clubhouse, making it just as the Escalade pulls up and parks. Nathan, Matthew, a skinny kid in jeans and a hoodie who looks a lot like Nick, and the blonde girl from the Palmer dinner get out. Caleb raises an eyebrow in Nathan's direction, and Nathan grins and shrugs.

"This here's Jessie," he says.

Caleb's distracted by how Nick is poking Joe in the chest with what looks to be his five-iron. "You could at least leave a note," he's saying.

"I did leave a note!"

"Yeah, where?"

"Under the phone in mine and Dad's room." Joe gestures expansively. "For which, oh, you don't have a keycard. And Dad's not really talking to you right now."

"Right," Nick drawls.

Caleb is finding this amusing, except for his confusion over how the kid's dad isn't talking to him just because he won a goddamned professional golf tournament. "Well, now that no one's missing, maybe we could quit standing around here."

"Me and Jessie are gonna get lunch quick before practice," Nathan says, slinging his arm around Jessie's shoulders. "Joe, you want in?"

"Sure." And Joe follows them off towards the hotel. Caleb watches Matthew shrug, pick up his bags from the mall, and go in the same direction.

"So," he says to Nick. "Your dad's avoiding you lately?"

Nick hefts his club bag again. "Yeah. Don't want to talk about it, though."

"Sure."

They walk back to the hotel. In the elevator, Caleb discovers that Nick's staying on the same floor as he is. "Want to grab lunch?" he asks on a whim.

"Maybe after I shower?"

"Yeah, good idea. Meet you down on the patio in - half an hour?"

Nick nods and walks off, bag banging against his shin. Caleb lets himself into his room. He hasn't even been here twenty-four hours and already it's a disaster zone. He showers quickly and thinks about shaving, but decides he doesn't care. He throws on a pair of worn jeans and an old Rolling Stones t-shirt, jams his feet into some sandals. 

He smokes a fast cigarette out on the balcony and then goes down to the patio restaurant. April in Texas is fairly comfortable, and there are huge umbrellas open over all the tables, shading out most of the sun. Nick's beaten him down there. He looks engrossed in the menu. His hair curls damply over the collar of yet another polo. 

"Signed up for a round later?" Caleb asks as he slides into the chair next to Nick's at the round, glass-topped table. 

Nick glances up. "At three."

"I'm guessing you haven't played this course before."

"No." Nick regards him curiously for a moment, then leans forward slightly and asks, "Is it... against the rules if you maybe give me a couple hints about it, sort of what to expect?"

Caleb supposes it isn't. Ninety-five percent of what everyone talks about on the Tour is the Tour, after all, and it's not like he's giving away any sort of closely-held secrets to tell Nick what to watch out for on a course he'll be practicing on in two hours. "First off," he begins, "the seventeenth? It's fucking murder..."

*

  
Saturday dawns bright and clear, with no clouds, and barely any wind. He and Nathan had both made the cut, and so had Jonas. Caleb might have closed his eyes for a second and breathed a little sigh of relief when he saw the final numbers, but if anyone called him on it, he'd swear he hadn't.

He sends a small thank-you towards the sky for his early start. Barring shitty weather, he'd almost always rather be in an early group and not be distracted by other players' scores. Today is no exception. 

He's at three under to start. The other two in his group today are Glover and Els, at one under and two over respectively. The first hole is 395 yards, the fairway flanked with bunkers. Caleb watches Els approach and go through his pre-shot routine, then swing. It looks at first like it'll be a solid fairway hit, but the ball bounces and rolls, down into the left bunker. The crowd sighs. 

"That's crap luck," he hears Glover mutter. Ernie is shaking his head slightly as he hands the nine-iron to his caddy. 

Caleb knows you can play one course a hundred times and never make the same shot twice. He looks at Jared. "Seven?"

"Seven, dude." Jared slides the iron from the bag. 

Caleb sets his ball on the tee, then lines up his stance, pressing his feet down into the turf. He can see the flag, rippling only gently. He tunes out the people watching, his fellow golfers, everyone and everything except for the ball, the iron, and the line from here to where he wants to be. 

Breathe in with the backstroke, swing, _contact_.

*

  
On Sunday, on the eighteenth, he knows there's no way he's catching up with Jonas. Even if he makes this putt for birdie from fifteen feet.

He misses by inches and has to settle for par. It stings, but Caleb knows he's played a good game. Nick had just played a better one. He hands Jared his putter, shakes hands with Schwartzel and Yang, waves to the crowd, and gets off the course.

The scoring tent is large and shady, set up not far from the last hole, stocked with coolers full of water bottles and a few trays of snack items. Nick is sitting at one of the picnic tables, just out range of one of the large fans that keep the air circulating. His face is still damp with sweat. Caleb checks and signs his scorecard, then grabs a water and sits down next to Nick with his back to the edge of the table.

"I put the check from the Palmer in the bank," Nick says slowly. He's looking off into the distance.

"Yeah?"

"No one in my family has ever had that much money in the bank at once."

"It's a hell of a wage," Caleb replies, and bumps Nick with his elbow.

"I don't know how my father can say no to this, seeing how much money I could make."

"He still giving you shit?"

Nick nods tersely and takes a long drink of his own water. 

"What's his problem with all this?" It's what he'd wanted to ask the other day. 

"He doesn't think it's a viable career. Any pro sport, really. There's no... long term."

Caleb coughs in disbelief, nearly choking on a mouthful of water. "What does he think the Senior Tour is? There's plenty of guys that do this their whole lives, and retire comfortably. And even if you don't think you want to do this your whole life, kid - you're eighteen. You can give it a shot for a couple years and then go to college or whatever."

"I keep telling him that." Nick thunks his head down onto his forearms, crossed on the wooden table. 

There's a sudden hush of the crowd, and then the swell of cheers and applause. "Looks like Jack's finished his round," Caleb says, watching the small electronic scoreboard hanging in a corner change to reflect Lawless' final score of three-under. 

"I was trying not to pay attention," Nick mumbles. "I didn't look when you finished, either."

"That was a dumbass decision, since you kept your lead."

Nick's head snaps up. "I did?"

Caleb gestures towards the board. "You just added another year to your card."

"Shit," Nick breathes, and then turns red at having sworn. "I really thought Lawless would birdie those last two."

"Congratulations," Caleb says sunnily, and knocks his water bottle with Nick's. "I'll buy you a real drink later, yeah?"

"I don't -"

"Only one, I swear. Fuck, here comes the cavalry." 

They both stand up as a veritable herd of course and PGA officials, as well as the media, descend upon the tent. Caleb keeps one eye on Nick as he shakes a lot of hands and poses for pictures, looking stunned. 

Nathan comes up and punches him lightly on the shoulder. "Bro."

"Hey."

"Does that kid know how good he is?"

"No," Caleb replies, shaking his head. "I really don't think he's got a fucking clue."

 

3.

>   
> _A solid field heading in to this year's Masters... we're looking to the brothers Followill to play sharp, controlled rounds and make the cut... Charl Schwarzel is definitely a contender, he's a consistent top-ten player... don't rule out Phil Mickelson - just when you think Lefty's down and out, he proves you wrong..._ \- GolfTalkCentral

  
"I think I did something to my shoulder," Nathan says, as they walk down to the hotel's huge indoor pool on Thursday night. Caleb glances at him, but Nathan won't meet his gaze, just keeps looking straight ahead.

Caleb runs through the day in his head, remembering the tightly controlled expression on Nathan's face as he'd come off the eighteenth this afternoon. He should have realized it was actual pain, and not just Nathan being pissed at how poorly he'd played. "How drunk were you the other night, man?"

"Pretty fucking drunk." He swipes his room card to get them into the pool area, and holds open the door. 

Caleb glances around, but sees no one else. "What are you doing to do?"

"Trying to decide if I want to withdraw. There's no way I'm going to make the cut tomorrow."

Caleb frowns at him. "Go sit in the fucking hot tub for a while. It might loosen up."

Nathan curses under his breath, but gets into the steaming tub. Caleb slips into the pool and swims ten minutes' worth of laps in the cool water, then floats with his eyes closed until he feels like his whole body might shrivel up, not just his fingertips. 

He climbs out and finds that Nathan has given up on the hot tub and is wrapped in a towel on one of the lounge chairs, texting someone on his phone. "You want me to poke at it?" Caleb asks, wiggling his fingers and pointing at Nathan's shoulder. 

"Not really," Nathan grumbles, but he turns around. Caleb prods at his shoulder gently several times, until he reaches a spot where Nathan twitches violently and swears. 

Caleb smacks him on the arm. "Go fucking ice it, Jesus."

He can hear his phone dinging with a text as he keys into his room, and drops his towel to the floor as he scoops it up. It's Jonas. _Is your brother okay?_

Caleb snorts and hits the icon to dial. "He and Jared went to a strip club on Wednesday night," he says when Nick answers. He tucks the phone between his cheek and shoulder and curls his hands around an imaginary putter, visualizing the ball and a hole on the opposite end of the room. "I don't know what the fuck they were thinking, or what the fuck they did, but he messed up his shoulder somehow. Did he look as awful on television as he did for real?"

"It seemed like he was favoring his right side. He looked really tense."

"Did I?"

Nick makes a noncommittal noise, sort of a hum. "What's Augusta like?"

"Beautiful," Caleb sighs. He takes a practice stroke. "D'you go back to New Jersey?"

"Jersey? No. I'm in Dallas. We moved after I graduated."

He pictures the green at the ninth, where he'd missed by inches when the ball had curled around the edge of the cup. "So you'll be in San Antonio next week?"

"Yeah, Joe and I are making the drive on Monday morning. Are you playing?"

"We're going to spend the week at home. I did it last year, and it was just - too fucking much, after the complete mindfuck of playing here." He makes a minute adjustment to the angle of his swing. 

"Is it the same way this year?"

Caleb laughs. "Yeah."

There's some muffled noise in the background on Nick's end, something Caleb can't make out, and then Nick says, "I have to go; Joe and I promised Frankie we'd take him to the movies and he's telling me we have to leave early because some road is closed. Good luck tomorrow." 

"Hey, thanks," Caleb says, and means it.

*

  
Nathan withdraws after four holes on Friday, and Caleb feels weird going out to start on Saturday morning without his brother in one of the other groups. As they wait for the fog to lift, he asks Jared what his feeling is for the day, and Jared just looks at him with an exasperated expression. "Caleb. Seriously."

"Come on, man."

"Focus, or fuck up. That's my fucking feeling for the day." 

Jared's always been good at reading Caleb's jitters before Caleb even notices he's nervous, and today is no exception. The fog begins to dissipate in earnest, sun breaking through the trees and making the water hazards shine. There's a light wind, but it's not anything he'll have to struggle against. He can hear the other players talking, the crowd murmuring. The energy is palpable. 

He can feel the anticipation building in his arms, sparks in his shoulders. It's a cold chill, but not uncomfortable. Like every inch of his body is narrowing down to nothing but the connection between ball, club, line of sight. He can feel the drive happening before he even approaches the tee. 

The announcer calls his name as Caleb sets his ball. He hears the applause from the crowd gathered here at the start; people who'd done a lottery for tickets and then shown up before dawn to jockey for a good view. Some of them will walk the course with him, he knows, and that's pretty awesome. 

He settles into his stance, flexing his fingers around the grip. He rolls his shoulders gently before taking a practice swing with the nine-iron, visualizing the arc of the ball. It's 445 yards to the flag. Getting it to the front of the fairway, with a second shot to get the ball the rest of the way, will set him up the best to play the green. 

He swings, making solid contact. He can't help but hold his breath as the ball flies - he's sure he's not the only player who does it. The ball drops right of where he'd wanted it, but not too far, and it's definitely playable. 

He's got a good feeling about today.

Jared flashes him a thumbs up. Caleb slides his club back in the bag and moves out of the way so that Scott can start his round. 

 

4.

>   
> _It's wide-open this week at the Valero, with last week's Master's champion Charl Schwartzel sitting this out. All eyes are on Nick Jonas after his wins in Orlando and Houston, and that pressure has got to be extreme. We're not ruling out a hard push from last year's Valero winner, Adam Scott, or current money list leader Jack Lawless..._ \- PGATOUR.com preview

  
Skipping the Texas Open means that the television doesn't move off the Golf Channel for days at a time, and Caleb glares at his mother when she threatens to unplug it during dinner the first day of the tournament.

Jonas is three under approaching the fourth hole. He's in all white again; he seems relaxed at the tee. Caleb knows better. Their mom swears that Nathan never broke a sweat at Bridgestone, but Caleb had been there, he knows that the way you look on television ain't the same as how you walk the course. It's the reason he avoids his own footage when possible. "You look like you're made of stone out there, son," their dad had said once, "you and Nate both."

"Hardly made of stone, Dad," he'd replied. "Feels more like glass, most days. Guess it doesn't come across."

"Good though," his old man said, nodding, and clapped Caleb firmly on the back. "Then they don't see you sweat."

Jonas looks like he's taking whatever comes his way, wind be damned. The fourth hole is a sharp dog-leg, the green at ninety degrees and across a sandtrap from the tee. He manages to balance the risky with the safe through the turn, and with his fairway stroke, the ball makes a smooth landing on the green thirty feet from the cup. He sinks the long putt with barely a twitch of emotion on his face.

Caleb lets out the breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. "Thirty feet," he shouts to Nathan in the next room.

"What?" Nathan hollers back.

The broadcast has already moved on to Stricker, arguably the most famous player on the course today, and Caleb watches as as he tees off, his swing smart and efficient. His ball flies a little more than two hundred yards, but it comes down at the very edge of the fairway and rolls off to the side, straight into a sandtrap. Caleb winces. "Oh, that's gotta sting."

"Fuckin' AT&T," Nathan says from the doorway. "All bunkers. What's thirty feet?"

"Jonas nailed a straight thirty-footer."

"So?"

Caleb stops himself before he can say _it was beautiful_ , even though it had been. If he'd been DVRing this shit, he'd re-watch right now, a dozen times in a row. "It was pretty damned sweet. He was under. Even you can't make par on the fourth hole there."

"All right," Nathan says, then, "Man, you need to turn that off for a while and like, whittle a chair or something," and disappears again.

"A chair," Caleb repeats absently, as Stricker plays his ball out of the sandtrap just short of the green, chipping it up. It rolls, but stays on the green. Then he misses the twelve-foot putt for par and settles for the bogey, frowning as he does. "Yeah, you should frown," Caleb tells the television.

Stricker doesn't improve, which Caleb announces as a shame before getting up for dinner.

*

  
In the end, Nick comes in tied for twelfth, and it's Lawless that lives up to his nickname and wins the tournament. Caleb texts Nick that night, just before he goes to bed. _Can't win 'em all._

Fifteen minutes later, his phone chimes. _But I was on a streak ;-)_

Caleb grins despite himself. _You still did good, kid. 4th hole was great today._

_You watched?_

_Everything that aired._

Half an hour later, as he's almost dozed off, he gets: _Thanks. I mean it._

 

5.

Caleb's settled in on Tuesday night with a map of the course and some mindless trash on HBO, three glasses into a decent bottle of red, when there's a knock on his door. It's Nick, looking a little distraught around the edges, like his nerves are plucking at him. "You want to come play a round with me?" he asks. "There's still enough light, the course isn't closed yet."

Caleb sees Nick has brought his clubs. He'd already played a practice round this afternoon, but he gets the sense that something's happened. "Yeah, sure, if you don't mind that I'm not sober."

"I don't care. I just want to get out there."

Something has definitely happened. He drains his glass, then jams his feet into a pair of spikes, hefts his bag onto his shoulder, and follows Nick down out of the hotel.

The first hole is deserted; it's so close to twilight, and thus the cutoff time. "I'm playing to win," he warns Nick.

"I'm playing to stop thinking," Nick replies.

They go the first three holes in silence, except for the sound of clubs slicing through air. Despite what he'd said to Nick, Caleb doesn't try very hard. As long as he can keep the ball going in the direction of the flag pin, he doesn't care how many strokes it takes. 

As they wander towards the fourth hole tee, Caleb bumps his hip into Nick's. "Feeling any better?"

"A little."

"Something happen?"

"I told my dad I'm sticking it out the season, for sure. He wasn't thrilled, but I pointed out that I could afford it now, and might as well do it, see how things end up."

"He gonna stick with you on the tour?"

"A couple more, at least."

"I'm glad."

"That I'm staying, or he's staying?"

"Definitely you," Caleb replies with a grin. 

Nick just laughs and shakes his head. "How was Augusta?"

"Charl got the better of me." 

"Watching you guys on TV - it was great. That was the kind of golf I used to love to watch, you know? Where it was obvious you weren't really competing against the other guys, but competing against _yourself_." He shrugs, a small smile pulling at his mouth. "That's the best and worst thing about golf - if I mess up, I only have myself to blame."

Caleb bumps him again. "That was always the draw for me, man."

Nick nods, swinging his five-iron in his fingers, looking at the darkening sky. 

"So how come you're so buttoned-up here tonight?" Caleb asks, reaching out and popping open the top button of Nick's polo shirt. "It's just us."

His thumb brushes the hollow of Nick’s throat and Caleb can feel him swallow. "Sorry, I'm still a little buzzed." It's not really an apology, he's more just rambling, and he doesn't drop his hand from Nick's chest.

Nick doesn't step back away from the touch, but he doesn't lean into it, either. "I'm not," he says quietly.

 _What the fuck are you doing_ , the voice in Caleb's head shouts at him, as he curls his thumb under the open collar, grazing Nick's collarbone. There's still a good foot and a half between them, only Caleb's arm stretched out. He strokes his thumb over Nick's skin again, feels the jump in his pulse. The heel of his hand is resting just above Nick's heart and he can count the rise and fall of Nick's chest underneath his palm.

"Caleb," Nick whispers, swallowing again, "what are you doing?"

He takes a minute to think about that, a whole stretch of time in which he keeps skin pressed to skin, then says, "I don't know," and slowly drops his hand. "Let's – let's just play."

Nick doesn't move for so long that Caleb starts to worry that he's given the kid a heart attack or something. Then he leans down and picks up his iron. Caleb hadn't noticed that he'd dropped it. "I don't know how you can be so uncontrolled on the course," he says quietly, setting his ball on the tee. He settles into a loose stance, but the line of his back is tense.

"If you think I've got no control while I play, you're obviously looking at someone else besides me."

Nick shakes his head. "I didn't mean no control." He swings and they watch the ball arc through the air, a streak of neon green against the darkening sky, landing no more than ten yards from the green. "You play like you – I don't know, like you don't even have to think about any of it."

Caleb can't stop his gaze from traveling down Nick's body, from his shoulders to hips to thighs. "You should watch your own footage sometime, kid," he murmurs, then sets up his own tee. He's aware of Nick's eyes on him as he addresses the ball and swings, and the weight of his gaze is like double gravity, pulling on Caleb's arms. His ball goes into the trees. "Fuck."

"Well, it is getting dark." Nick's grinning when Caleb turns to glare at him. "You're away. Go hit it out of the woods, Mr. Open Championship."

"Let me see you sink yours." At Nick's raised eyebrow, he adds, "This ain't tournament play, Jonas."

"Fine."

Caleb hangs back a little and watches Nick swap clubs and address the ball. His face is nearly all in shadow. His putt looks jumpy; the ball curls around the edge of the cup and rolls to a stop three feet past. He taps it in. "Guess that's par," he says.

"I don't even know what par is for this hole off the top of my head," Caleb admits, and Nick tells him with a laugh. Then he goes to smack his ball out of the goddamned trees. He's two over by the time he gets it on the green, and Nick tells him to hurry up as he lingers over choosing a putter. "Quiet, you," he murmurs, turning to find Nick right there, his face inches away. He doesn't do anything, though, just sort of – hovers, like a bird trying to bank against a strong wind.

Caleb's the one to reach out, touch where he had before. _We shouldn't be doing this,_ he thinks. Even simply sneaking off to play a round together at this time of day is ridiculous, much less his thumb sliding over Nick's neck, fingers sliding around the nape and slipping through curls. He drops the putter and rests his other hand on Nick's waist. And as he touches Nick, he's saying, "This is so damned unprofessional but, fuck, I want to kiss you."

"We shouldn't," Nick breathes, but his eyes are locked on Caleb's mouth. "The fact that we've got to compete against each other... I can't – I can't let anything get in the way of my game or distract me. It's too important."

He's not wrong. For the second time tonight, Caleb forces himself to let go and step back. He takes a deep breath. "I think we should call it a night," he suggests, bending down to pick up his club and his ball.

"Yeah."

They walk back to the hotel in silence. There's a crowd of people streaming out of a party and Caleb glances over at Nick, but they go their separate ways without even a goodnight. "So, who won?" Matthew asks when Caleb lets himself into the suite they're sharing tonight.

He sets down his clubs, kicks off his shoes and crawls under the covers of his designated bed, ignoring the look on Matthew's face. "I don't know," he answers, because he doesn't.

"How do you mean you don't know?"

"We weren't keeping score," Caleb says, and pulls the blanket up over his head. It's a childish way to end the conversation but it works. He slips his phone from his pocket and opens a new text message to Nick. He looks at the cursor blinking, not knowing what to say, until the screen goes idle and then dark. He shoves the phone away under his pillow and tries to sleep.

*

  
He's jumpy and jittery the next day, and his first practice round is a complete fucking mess. "What the hell is up with you?" Jared hisses, as they walk behind Schwartzel and his caddy towards the fifteenth. "I don't remember the last time I saw you fuck up like this."

Caleb presses his lips together into a thin line, shaking his head, trying to indicate that he doesn't want to talk about it. Jared keeps giving him a hard look, though, and finally Caleb snaps at him to stop. 

"You're not going to sleep tonight if all your practice is for shit," Jared replies as they wait for Charl to tee up. "And then it'll take a fucking miracle for you to make the cut. You can tell me what's up."

"Not out here."

"Fine. Later."

"Fine." 

Caleb hopes he'll forget, but Jared just corners him in the hotel lobby after dinner. "Dude. Something is making you miserable and it's throwing your game into the shitter, which is making you all the more miserable."

"You know I hate it when you get all psychiatrist on me." 

" _Caleb._ Come on. I'm your brother. Not to mention, I'm usually about three feet from you for hours at a time. It's kinda my job to get all shrink on you. I can tell something's fucking you up."

Jared looks worried, and serious. His hair is sticking up at ridiculous angles, like he's been running his hands through it non-stop. Caleb slumps down in one of the low, plush chairs scattered throughout the lobby and main hallways, gesturing for Jared to sit down as well. "You know Jonas?" he asks, because if he's going to tell Jared, that's as good a place as any to start. 

"Nick Jonas? Yeah."

For a second, he considers the best way to say this. He settles on: "It's possible that I want to drag him to my room and fuck his brains out."

Jared's eyes go wide. " _Really?_ "

Caleb flips him off. 

"And, um, does he know this?"

"Yeah, I think he's gotten the idea." Caleb stares down at his hands. He picks at a callus. Then he glances at Jared, who's staring at him with a sort of horrified expression. Caleb can practically read the thoughts running through his mind: there is no way this could be more awkward, being on the tour together, seeing each other in the locker room before and after rounds, having to _play against each other_. 

"If you fuck him, are you still going to want to win?" Jared asks quietly. 

Caleb flips him off again but says, with honesty and a sigh, "Ain't got a clue."

"Damn."

"Yeah." 

"So... what are you going to do?"

Caleb shrugs, then rubs his face with his hands. "Nothing."

Jared stares at him for a minute. Then he says, "You should go hit a bucket and then go to bed, dude. That's what you should do. And not worry about Jonas, at least not until Monday."

"Yeah," he laughs, tiredly. "Sure you're right about that."

*

  
Confessing seems to help. That, and the massage he gets on Wednesday night. The things that were wound up tight inside of him relax a little. He wakes up Friday morning feeling _ready_ , and his palms practically itch, he wants to play so badly.

In the locker room, Jared recognizes the look on his face and grins, punches him gently in the arm. "Ready?"

"Fuck yeah, I'm ready."

"Then let's fucking do this."

His first drive off the tee at the tenth is a goddamned dream, safe from the lagoon on the left of the fairway. The rest of the back nine slide by just like he'd run through his head the night before, and when it's time to walk back to one, he's comfortable on the board tied for fourth. Jonas two spots below, tied for sixth at two under. 

They both make the cut with plenty of room to spare, but Nathan's one stroke over the line. Caleb pats him on the arm in a brief attempt to be consoling as they wait to be seated in the hotel restaurant for dinner, but Nathan shrugs him off. "Shoulder's still fucked," he sighs, sounding miserable. "It's probably for the best I don't play the weekend."

"Still sucks." 

The hostess gestures to them, and they pass Nick and his father at one of the tables having a low-voiced argument. Caleb slides his phone from his pocket once they're seated and sends _???_ to Nick, then sets it aside. 

Later, once Nick's dad has walked off, Caleb gets _He's still mad_.

_Same issue?_

Nathan looks at him over the rim of his water glass. "Who are you texting?"

"No one," Caleb mutters, but he's not subtle in the slightest and Nathan glances over his shoulder, just in time to see Nick typing on his phone.

"Still playing friends with the rookie?" Nathan asks.

Caleb's phone vibrates. _Didnt put in the college apps like he wanted._

"I can't have friends that aren't you guys?" he wonders in reply.

Nathan rolls his eyes but doesn't give him any more shit. 

_no time for college only time for golf ;-)_ is what he sends back to Nick, and glances up in time to see Nick trying to cover his laughter with his hand. 

"Right," Nathan drawls. 

Caleb turns his attention to his plate, and when he looks again, Nick's gone. 

 

6.

>   
> _The weather forecast for Avondale is definitely not a golfer's dream this week... sunshine is promised for most of the week, but there's a storm brewing off the coast that could make landfall by Saturday. Course officials aren't making any calls yet, saying they're going wait and see..._ \- Zurich Classic preview, PGATour.com

  
Caleb flies to New Orleans on Monday with just his clubs and an overnight bag. He rents a car at the airport - a sleek, cherry-red number, the kind he'd rather be driving every day than the Escalade - and cruises to the hotel. He checks in, then checks with the course officials and gets a practice time for later in the afternoon.

He says hello to a couple other players who are heading out as he goes up to his room to drop his stuff, then stands on the balcony chain-smoking, watching people come and go from the main entrance. An airport van pulls up, and he sees the Jonas and his brother get out. Nick is stony-faced, and he yanks his things from the van with sharp, deliberate motions. Joe is making huge spazzy gestures, his unzipped hoodie flapping around. Caleb can't hear what they're saying, but the fact that they're in the middle of an argument is obvious. 

Nick seems to be rolling his eyes at his brother when he spies Caleb up on the balcony. He waves. Caleb waves back, and sees Joe scowl. 

_That's interesting_ , his brain supplies, and Caleb shakes his head at himself and finishes his cigarette. He really needs to take a step back, not think about Nick or the line of his jaw or the hollow of his throat, or his totally weird family drama. Caleb needs to focus on his game this week; something is off with his long drives, something he needs to get under control before Thursday. 

There's a message on his phone from Nathan when he closes the sliding door - they'll be in the city around eight; does he want to grab a late dinner? Caleb texts back that he's just going to go to bed early since his morning practice time is barely past sunrise.

He spends a few hours out on the driving range, hitting ball after ball and chatting in between swings with the other guys who are also hammering away. Everyone's worried about the storm that's apparently sneaking up on them from somewhere off the coast, and whether or not they'll have to play in bad weather. 

"I have to admit, I really don't want to be on the course in the middle of lightening and some fucking hail, or whatever they're predicting," Fowler tells him, as Caleb kicks a loose ball back over to his stand. "Seriously. Hail? It's freaking _April_."

"Tropical storms don't give a fuck," Caleb replies. "Lightning might get us a postponement, though."

"Then we'll just be chasing the sun the rest of the day, scrambling to finish rounds."

"Yeah." It's definitely far from ideal. He lights a cigarette. Around it, he says, "Played in Kansas once, tornado was going through the next town over. Sky was colors you wouldn't fucking believe."

"And you kept playing?" Fowler swings, and they both watch as his ball sails out past the two hundred. He grimaces. "Shit. Hit it harder than I wanted."

"Hell yeah, we kept playing. Couldn't afford not to, then." He remembers the battle against the wind, the soaking rain. "But then we all ran for our cars when a tree cracked and a huge fucking limb fell on the clubhouse."

"Shit, really?"

Caleb nods and lines up. Then his phone vibrates in his pocket and he curses, tucks his club under his arm to take it out. It's a text from Nick. _you haven't seen Joe around, have you?_

 _No,_ he writes back, _lost again?_

Nick's reply doesn't come until Caleb's gotten in three more long, solid drives. _got a round starting in five and he's not answering_.

Huh. That sounds like what he knows of Nick's brother. "Hey, Rickie, you want to finish off this bucket for me? I'm gonna go give Jonas a hand with something."

"Sure, man, yeah."

 _I'll come carry for ya, be there in 2._

He leaves his bag in the club's locker room and walks out to the first hole, where Nick is standing with his arms crossed over his chest, looking alternately furious and apologetic, his mouth set in a frown. He shakes his head at Caleb. "Seriously, you don't have to do this; I can get a volunteer from the club. I'm just mad that he disappeared."

"I want to," Caleb says easily. He lifts a hand towards Nick's round-mates. "Hey, Justin, Spencer."

Nick is still frowning. "Really, Caleb. Joe's probably just doing this because he's all pissed at me for some reason, and this is his idea of punishment or something." He glares at his phone, as if that will make Joe call him sooner, then jams it into a pocket on his bag. 

"If you really don't want me to, I won't," Caleb murmurs, so that the others don't hear. "I only - hell, you know, I figured you might want somebody to talk to that isn't related to you. I ain't the best conversation partner, but I know how it can get sometimes."

Nick looks at him wide-eyed for a moment, then sighs, and sort of laughs. "I guess you do. Sure, okay. It'll be nice to go the course with someone else who understands all this."

God, he's so sheltered. _You're a fuck for even thinking he's attractive,_ Caleb tells himself, _and you're just setting yourself up to be shot down._

Nick gives him a smile that Caleb can only interpret as hopeful, and bumps their arms together. He's sure that Nick's written off the other night as him being drunk. Which he wasn't, not really; he can still remember every moment that had passed. 

Nick talks - reluctantly, it seems - while Rose and Levin are taking their shots, about growing up a pastor's son in New Jersey, and how he'd been introduced to golf by a family friend, and then persuaded his parents to let him take lessons one summer from the coach at the local high school, who had then invited Nick to join the team. 

"He saw something in me that I hadn't seen in myself," he tells Caleb, leaning on his putter and watching Levin line up a chip from the rough. "But it wasn't until I won a local amateur tournament the following August that they agreed to let me enroll at the high school and join the team."

"So you'd never gone to public school 'til then?"

"Nope." He goes to putt in, a smooth stroke from four feet. He plucks the ball from the cup, and they move out of Rose's way. Caleb takes the putter from Nick's hand and examines it. The grip is rubbed thin with use in some spots, the finish on the head worn. 

"You know, you could probably afford new clubs," he says to Nick, who looks surprised. 

"I didn't even think about it."

"Nike would kill to sign you, man, and they've been making some great putters." He slides the club back into Nick's bag and picks the whole thing up. "You didn't even think about that, either."

Nick shakes his head. "There's so much of this I thought - you can't learn everything about the Tour from the Golf Channel. There's so much _more_." He turns to walk backwards, eyes on Caleb. 

"Don't trip before we get to the next tee, kid."

"Thanks." 

Nick sounds legit, not like he's being sarcastic, so Caleb can't help but ask, "For what?"

"For helping me navigate some of it."

He suddenly wants a drink, and badly. Jonas is obviously looking to him as some sort of mentor-figure, and here Caleb just wants to drag him behind some trees and kiss him until he can't breathe. It's so wrong. And Nick keeps smiling at him, clueless. Caleb swallows. "I, um. You're welcome."

*

  
There's a knock at his door on Tuesday night, and it's Jared, in skinny jeans and a leather jacket. He's grinning. "There is some sort of dance party happening down in the nightclub on the other end of the hotel, and there are hot ladies. It might be a bachelorette party. We need to crash it, dude."

Caleb shrugs. He'd been planning to hit the bar soon enough. "Cool. Let me get shoes."

On their way through the lobby, he sees Nick, sitting on the bench of the grand piano and staring at the keys. Caleb makes a split second decision as they pass him, and curls his fingers in the back of Nick's shirt collar. Nick jolts, and Caleb grins. His heart thuds with anticipation in his chest, because this is fucking ridiculous, what he's about to do. 

"Come on," he murmurs in Nick's ear, "you're coming with us."

"What -" Nick starts, but Caleb just tugs him off the bench and continues in the direction of the club. It's on the opposite side of the hotel, away from most of the foot traffic, and is clearly meant for parties like the one currently happening. There's a sign on the door stating that this is a private event, but people are wandering in and out, and no one seems to be checking on who comes and goes. Nick looks apprehensive as they walk up to the entrance and Caleb grins, squeezing his shoulder. 

Music pours out of the space every time the door swings in the frame. It's dark inside except for the strobes flashing, the dance floor packed with women in short skirts and stiletto heels. 

"Perfect," Jared yells in Caleb's ear. "I'll get drinks."

"I really don't think I should be here," Nick shouts in his other ear. 

"You should definitely fucking be here. What the fuck were you doing besides?"

"I..." Nick trails off, or maybe the words are lost in the noise. The way he blinks at Caleb is obvious in the sudden white flash of lights, and Caleb feels sort of bad. Jonas really is clueless in a situation like this. He's probably never been in a bar in his life, even just to eat a fucking burger. 

"Sorry," he yells over the music. "You don't have to, if you're - uncomfortable."

Nick shakes his head hurriedly. "No, I just..."

A cold bottle slips into Caleb's hand, and then Jared holds another out to Nick, who shakes his head again. "Really, I can't!"

"Suit yourself," Jared shouts, then disappears into the crowd on the dance floor with a beer in each hand. 

Caleb takes a swig of his and slides closer to Nick. "Dance?"

Nick's eyes go wide. They're close enough that Caleb can tell he's blushing, but Nick doesn't move back. Caleb tips his head forward so that his mouth is next to Nick's ear, and slides his free hand to Nick's waist, hooking his fingers in the belt loops he finds. "It's dark enough nobody's going to notice you in here," he says, "c'mon."

"Your brother -"

"Doesn't give a fuck."

Nick gives him a tentative smile, then puts his hand on Caleb's hip. Caleb moves them backwards onto the dance floor, into the throng. No one looks at them twice - Caleb doesn't have a clue where Jared is - and the music has a good beat. He keeps his fingers twisted in Nick's jeans as they dance, thumb sliding up under the bottom edge of Nick's t-shirt and finding warm skin. 

Nick ducks his head. Caleb feels his fingers tighten briefly. The music seems to increase in volume, so loud it's not even worth trying to shout over. He drinks his beer quickly, wants another, but also doesn't want to lose his grip on Nick. 

Nick, who stumbles closer suddenly like he's been knocked into. Their knees touch, then their thighs, and then Caleb drapes the arm he's holding the empty bottle with over Nick's shoulder, because the kid's eyes are closed and Caleb wants to see if he can get away with it. Nick's breath seems to hitch but he can't quite tell. 

He feels like he should say something, but thankfully the music stops him from muttering something stupid that he'd probably regret tomorrow. Nick moves a little closer. _There's no way you're imagining this_ , Caleb says to himself, and waits for Nick to wise up and step back. 

He doesn't know how long they stay like that, moving to the music, keeping up with the beat. Then Nick does jerk away, reaching into his back pocket and taking out his phone. He waves it, yelling, "Sorry!". He's turned and disappeared through a group of women before Caleb's managed to process that they're no longer touching. 

He stands unmoving on the dance floor for a moment before going to the bar and ordering two shots, looking for the quickest way to get drunk. As he's setting the second empty on the bar, Jared smacks him hard on the shoulder, and Caleb turns to glare at him. "Don't be a dick, man."

Jared jerks his chin at the glasses. "Where's mine?"

Caleb gestures to the bartender for another, and one for Jared. 

"Where'd Jonas go?" Jared asks. 

"His phone rang."

"I left a few very, um, nice girls out there on the floor - you should come meet them." Jared waggles his eyebrows suggestively, looking ridiculous, then adds, "Get your mind off that other... problem."

"That - that is exactly what I believe I need." He slings one arm around Jared's shoulders, and flings the other towards the ladies. "Lead on, my brother!"

Half a dozen songs later, the tequila has made everything slow and beautiful, and a gorgeous blonde has her arms wrapped around his neck. She's leggy and she smells like flowers in sunlight, and she's not what Caleb wants tonight at all. 

But he stays another few songs; he's not sure how many. It's only when she tries to slip him her room key that Caleb lets go of her waist. "Sorry," he says, mouth pressed close to her ear, "but I can't."

He doesn't bother finding Jared, just leaves the bar. _If i come to ur room, will u let me in?_ he texts Nick, fingers slow on the tiny keys. He steps into the elevator and presses the button for the third floor, his own. 

The answer comes before he's gotten to the second. _Yes. 517._

Caleb hits the button for the fifth floor before he can give it any more thought. The doors slide open on the third, and feel like they stand open forever before closing again. 

The hallway on the fifth is empty, Nick's room somewhere in the middle. He finds it and knocks, leaning against the wall. He can hear a television on inside. Then Nick opens the door, eyes sweeping over Caleb. He's wearing plaid pajama pants and a t-shirt advertising some band Caleb's never heard of. "Hey."

"Hi."

"Are you drunk?"

"A little."

Nick steps back, making a space for Caleb to enter the room. Then Nick's hand is reaching over his shoulder, pressing the door closed behind them, and pressing Caleb back against the door. There's a loud click as Nick snaps the deadbolt into place. "What are you -" Caleb starts, and then Nick's mouth is on his, hot and much more demanding than Caleb would have figured, Nick's teeth catching on his bottom lip, and he's _really_ glad Nick's made this move. 

Nick pulls back and stares at him. "Don't you want to kiss me?"

"...yes?"

"Then you should, you know, maybe - kiss back."

Caleb does, grabbing Nick's hips and pulling him in closer. Nick clutches at his shoulders and mumbles something into the kiss, words lost in their mouths. He tastes like toothpaste. Caleb's not surprised. 

He realizes they're still standing against the door when his head hits it. "Sorry," Nick whispers. "Maybe you should... come in." He pulls at Caleb's shoulders, tugging him into the center of the hotel room. It looks identical to Caleb's own, but neater. He should have figured on Nick being the type to hang his clothes up all carefully in the closet. 

Nick kisses him again, sliding a hand down his chest. "I don't really know what I'm doing," he breathes against the side of Caleb's face. 

"You're good so far." He kisses the underside of Nick's jaw, then down his neck. 

"I feel kind of like an idiot standing here." 

"There is a bed, Jonas."

Nick grins and yanks him toward it, like he'd just been waiting for Caleb to make the suggestion. "God, pushy much?" Caleb asks, as Nick crawls backwards onto the rumpled sheets, reaching out every few inches to make sure Caleb's still following along. 

Nick grins at him again, sharper this time, like there's totally a joke here that Caleb's not getting. "I - am - very - pushy," he replies, punctuating the words with kisses. His palm is hot on the back of Caleb's neck. “How do you think I got sponsorship into the Palmer?”

“I hope not like this.” He slides a hand down Nick’s chest, along the curve of his hip. 

“Definitely not like this,” Nick laughs. 

Caleb bites gently on his bottom lip, then swings a leg over Nick's waist. Nick arches up against him. "For someone who don't know what they're doing, you seem to be figuring it out okay," Caleb breathes against his neck. Nick hums and slides his hand up under Caleb's shirt. 

Someone bangs on the door and Caleb rolls off of Nick like the bed is suddenly on fire. Nick scrambles away as Caleb pushes his hands through his hair, rubs his palms over his face. Nick looks down at himself, smoothing his shirt, before mouthing _Sorry_ at Caleb and going to answer the knock. 

It's Joe. He stares at them, confused expression on his face. 

"I should go," Caleb says firmly, and sidesteps Joe to slip out the door. 

He goes back down to his messy room on the third floor, and cracks open the minibar.

*

  
He's hungover as fuck the next morning, and is late dragging himself out of bed. He barely makes it down to the course to start his pro-am round on time, and Jared presses a paper cup of coffee into his hand, muttering under his breath, "Where the hell did you go last night?"

Caleb shakes his head and crouches to find the painkillers in his club bag. He tips a few straight into his mouth and chases them with coffee. Then he shakes hands with Chevy Chase. 

Jared's eyes are wide. _Really, seriously?_ he mouths. Caleb wants to laugh, but his head would hurt worse if he did. 

"Let's get this show on the road," Chevy says, driver in hand, so they do.

*

  
"So I kept waiting for someone to make a Caddyshack joke, you know?" Jared is saying, gesturing in disbelief. "The whole fucking time. But nope. No gopher jokes, no kangaroo stole my ball, nothing."

"Jared was really disturbed by this, as you can tell," Caleb says to Nick, who's sitting to his left. He reaches for his beer. They've grouped with the Jonases for dinner, and all six of them plus Jessie are crowded around one of the tables in the restaurant, the surface now cluttered with half-empty plates and glasses. Joe is steadfastly refusing to look in Caleb's direction, but no one else seems to have noticed, and Nick doesn't seem bothered by it at all.

Nick whispers, "I've never seen Caddyshack."

"What."

"Seriously."

Caleb shakes his head. "I don't understand your life, kid. Come to my room later and you can watch it." He nudges away his plate with a few fries still laying, now clumped and limp and cold. 

Nick either doesn't notice or doesn't care as he grabs one and stuffs it into his mouth. "I have an early start tomorrow," he warns through the food.

"I know."

"So I might fall asleep."

"Okay." It's a pleasant thought, the idea of laying on his gigantic and surprisingly comfortable hotel bed with Jonas. "Bring your own pillow."

Nick grins. 

An hour later, Nick is curled around him on the bed, and Bill Murray is ranting on the screen. Caleb lets his fingers drift through Nick's hair. "My dad's not going to come with anymore, not regularly," Nick murmurs, just when Caleb thinks he's nearly asleep. 

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"Are you... okay with that?"

Nick shrugs, a soft movement that shifts him closer. "What's Chevy Chase like?"

"Um, surprisingly competitive," Caleb admits. He rubs his socked foot gently over Nick's ankle. "He really likes to golf. It was fun, though, once the Advil kicked in and knocked out my headache."

Nick looks up at him. "You - you came back here last night and drank."

Caleb nods. There's no use lying about it. 

"Why?"

"Your brother showed up. It freaked me the fuck out." He props himself up on his elbow, looking down at Nick. "What are we doing?"

Nick swings a leg over his waist, pushing Caleb back down to the bed and straddling him. With his hands pressing on Caleb's shoulders, he answers, "Whatever we want."

Caleb slides a hand around the back of Nick's neck, and Nick leans down to kiss him. "I thought you needed to sleep," Caleb whispers against his mouth. "Not that I'm complaining."

"I should go back to my own room."

"No, stay." He wraps his arms around Nick's waist, not wanting him to leave. "I'll quit molesting you and let you fall asleep, I promise."

Nick grins at him, then settles once more against his side. He falls asleep within minutes, but Caleb stays awake, running his hand up and down Nick's back in slow strokes as he pays lax attention to the rest of the movie. 

 

7\. 

It's the final round of the Players, and Caleb knows his game is for shit. It's hot and rainy and somehow he's made it through to Sunday, even if he does feel sort of like he's just going through the motions. It's just him and Jared in Florida; Nathan's still sidelined with his injury and Jonas had gone back to Texas for a week. 

Jared gives him a hard look when he comes off the 14th after making par yet again, and Caleb hisses, "What?"

"All you have to do is finish, Caleb," he says, picking up the club bag and angling the umbrella over them both. "But seriously, quit playing like you don't even want to be here. Otherwise, there's no fucking point to you even committing to this tourney."

Caleb frowns at him, then realizes he's right. 

The next hole is a dogleg right, 449 yards. Caleb eyes the drivers in his bag, then picks the Callaway. "Nice," Jared murmurs. 

"Straight through that gap in the trees, over the water, onto the fairway," Caleb says, gesturing. There's really no other way to play it. _All you have to do is finish,_ he tells himself. He looks down the fairway to where he knows the hole is; he can't see the flagstick, but he knows it's there, just out of sight behind the curve of trees. _Go right, but not too right,_ he thinks to the ball. He squares up, looks out over the fairway again, and swings. 

He starts walking before the ball hits the ground.

*

  
"I watched the live feed," Nick says to him on the phone that night, as Caleb is sitting in the airport bar, waiting for his flight to be called.

"Not my best round."

"You didn't completely choke." 

"Yeah, well."

Nick murmurs in a low voice, "Mostly, I kept thinking about how I wanted to unbutton the collar of your shirt and, um - lick your neck."

Caleb nearly drops his whiskey and soda. "You what?"

"And Frankie was in the room at the same time; it was really inappropriate of me." Nick coughs a little, and Caleb can hear the rustle of clothes like he's shifting around. "I honestly felt sort of... bad."

He manages to take a sip of the drink, then grins into the glass. "Bad, huh? When do I see you next?"

"Tomorrow," Nick says, and it sounds like he's smiling. "I bought a car, so Joe and I are driving over to Forth Worth in the morning. What time are you getting in?"

"My flight leaves in forty-five minutes, so -" he breaks off to look at his watch, "we should be there a little after midnight, I guess."

Nick hums. "Maybe I can convince Joe to leave earlier. But not that early. He's already mad at me for wanting to be on-site tomorrow, instead of Tuesday or Wednesday."

Caleb raises an eyebrow, even though no one's around to see except the bartender. "Well, is he your caddy, or isn't he?"

"I don't know," Nick says in a low voice. Then he sighs. "I don't think he really wants to do this. Like, I still don't think it's really sunk in for him that this is work, not fun, and he should treat it like work."

Caleb watches the bartender move back and forth in the dim light, stacking glasses and wiping up spills. "Is he gonna quit on you?"

"What do I do, if he does?"

"Hire a new caddy," Caleb responds. He finishes his drink and gestures for another. "I'm serious, Nicky. There's guys who do this for real. You'd have to pay them, but..."

Nick's quiet for so long that Caleb wonders if he's hung up, or fallen asleep. Then he murmurs, "I think something's bothering him, but he won't tell me what it is. He's been - weird, lately."

"It's not -"

Nick cuts him off before he can finish the question. "No, I don't think he realized what we were doing."

A voice comes over the loudspeaker, announcing Caleb's flight. Nick says, "I hear your flight being called. I'll see you tomorrow," and hangs up before Caleb can reply. 

Caleb shakes his head, then takes a few swallows of the fresh drink before tossing some cash on the bar and jogging back to his gate. Jared's standing in line, looking bored. Caleb punches him lightly in the arm, and Jared gives him a sideways look. He thrusts Caleb's carry-on into his hand. "You look... chipper."

"I feel good."

"Yeah? You got goals for this week, man?"

Caleb hands the flight attendant his ticket to be scanned and smiles widely at Jared. "I'm thinking maybe - win."

"Fucking _finally_ ," Jared mutters, but he's grinning.

 

8\. 

"What would you do if you couldn't do this?" Nick asks, as Caleb is dropping kisses in a line down his chest, fully intending to finally give Nick a goddamned blowjob, even though it's late and he had more than he should have down at the bar tonight, and they both have early practice rounds tomorrow. 

He stops, feeling caught out. He doesn't know. He's never let himself think about it. He's _refused_ to think about it. 

"I don't know what I'd do," he admits, after Nick has stared down at him for several seconds like he's actually waiting for an answer. 

Nick sits up. His shirt falls back down where Caleb had just gotten it pushed up. "How do you mean you don't know?"

"I never wanted to do anything else."

"But what would you do if you got hurt, couldn't play competitively any longer?"

Caleb curves his hand over Nick's hip, feeling the hard press of bone under the muscles, the warmth of his skin. "Are you asking - is this because you're still trying to, you know, figure this thing out for - for yourself, or because you really want to know what I'd do?"

"Both, I guess," Nick says with a shrug, and slumps back against the pillows. 

At least he's honest. Caleb kisses his stomach. "I'm trying to blow you and you're asking these serious questions."

Nick squirms slightly. "Sorry," he breathes.

Caleb chuckles. "I don't think you are." 

"No, I totally am," Nick laughs, and then his laughter turns into a moan as Caleb cups his dick through his thin pajama pants. "Um, you should know, I've never -"

"I figured," Caleb replies, and carefully tugs the fabric down and away. Nick hisses as the cool air hits his cock. Caleb sees him grip handfuls of the hotel sheets. "Relax, Nicky, relax."

"I'm relaxed."

"Mmhmm." He rubs his cheek over Nick's thigh, and Nick twitches, inhaling sharply. He nuzzles against Nick's hip and Nick lets a small gasp escape. Then Caleb feels fingers slide through his hair, gentle and loose, almost petting. 

Nick moans again when Caleb mouths over his cock, brief touches intended to tease, except then Nick breathes, "I really won't last, you should know."

Okay, that's motivation. 

He glides his lips over the head and Nick shakes, a full-body shudder, and pats Caleb's hair like he doesn't know what else to do. Caleb fists the base of Nick's cock, covering with his hand what he can't cover with his mouth. He's no cocksucking expert but he's got the basics down, and the noises Nick's making sound appreciative. He settles in, finding a rhythm, listening to Nick's gasps and moans as they increase in volume.

Then Nick tugs on his hair sort of hard, and whines something that sounds like "stop, oh my God, stop," and Caleb pulls off but doesn't stop working his hand on Nick's cock. It takes only a few more strokes before Nick's coming, hips twisting as his mouth opens and closes on words he can't seem to form. Caleb grins and keeps stroking him through it; keeps stroking until Nick whines again and pushes his hand away.

Caleb wipes his fingers on the top sheet. "Okay?"

"Mmhmm," Nick breathes, stretching. Then he slides a hand over Caleb's thigh. "Do you - can I -"

Caleb slips out of his boxers like a shot, never taking his eyes off Nick's flushed face.

Nick's smile is flustered and hesitant but his grip sure isn't, and it only takes him a few seconds of Caleb muttering about what's good and what's even better to find the right pace.

*

  
He slips out of Nick's bed at dawn to go shower in his own room. As he's carefully closing the door behind him so that it doesn't make a sound, he hears a door closing the next quad of rooms over. He looks, just to see.

It's Joe, in the same clothes he'd been wearing yesterday. And the room he'd come out of was Nathan's. 

Joe stares at him, seeming frozen in place. Caleb's not sure what to do. Wave? Whisper hello? Turn and go the other direction, and pretend he hadn't totally made eye contact?

Joe makes the decision for him, though, by turning around and speed-walking towards the stairs. The door slams behind him. Caleb knocks on Nick's door again, hissing his name.

"What is it?" Nick answers, in nothing but a towel around his waist.

"Your brother. Saw me."

"What?"

"Joe. Saw me. Coming out of here."

Nick frowns, his forehead creasing. "His room is two floors down, are you sure it was him?"

Caleb sucks in a deep breath. "He was in Nathan's room."

Nick blinks and his towel slips a little. Caleb pushes him back into the room, not wanting to give everyone in the hotel an eyeful of what he's definitely come to think of as only his to see. 

"Does it matter?" Nick asks once the door's closed.

"What -"

"He saw you coming out of here, yeah, but you saw him coming out of Nathan's, so - does it really matter? It's not like he's going to tell." He sits down on the bed, looking up at Caleb. "Right?"

It's not right, in Caleb's mind, that Nick should be so calm about this, that he should have a rational response to getting found out. The confusion must show on Caleb's face, because Nick reaches out and puts a hand on his hip. "Does it really matter?" he asks again. 

"I - you're right, who could he tell, without saying how he saw?" Caleb touches Nick's damp curls. "Jesus, dinner's gonna be awkward."

Nick laughs. "Yeah."

"I should go."

"You should."

Caleb ducks down and kisses him, sliding his hands over Nick's bare shoulders. "Okay, going, really," he breathes, even as he rests his forehead against Nick's. 

Nick laughs again and pushes him away, glancing at the clock on the nightstand. "We've got practice in forty-five minutes, so you really should go shower and stuff. I'll see you out there."

*

  
"This is the first time I've played this course," Nick says, as they wait to tee off an hour later.

Caleb looks up from his battered copy of the course notes and sees Nick squinting down the fairway. "It's a little different every time. It's no Olympic, though."

"What is?" Nick replies, grinning. 

"All right, enough being friends, let's go," Jared announces, but he smiles as he says it, so Caleb knows he's not seriously fucking with them. But Nick's worried gaze flicks to him anyway, and Caleb flashes him a smile and mouths _it's cool, trust me_.

Joe's been unusually quiet so far, absorbed in the course notes, marking things with his tiny pencil. It's the first time Caleb's seen him attempting to engage with the course as opposed to just carrying Nick's bag and offering words of encouragement. He wonders if Nick had told him to step it up or get lost, or if Joe actually wants to stay now. 

Caleb doesn't really want to think about Joe's motivations on that front, because that involves his own brother, and - gross. 

He sets his ball on the tee and looks down the fairway. It's the second-longest hole on the course, a par-5 dotted with bunkers that make it almost impossible to reach the green in two. But this is practice, so he's gonna try. 

His shot bunkers out and he hears Jared whistle through his teeth. "It's all good, man," Caleb tells him, slapping Jared on the shoulder. "I can get up and down from there, no stress."

Jared rolls his eyes. 

Nick snaps a straight shot directly to the middle of the fairway, a perfect spot to reach the green with one more hard drive. He looks pleased, and then looks slightly ashamed at being excited about such a good lie. Caleb elbows him lightly as they cross the grass. "That's good," he murmurs. "Don't ever feel bad for making a play like that, dude."

Nick smiles again, a look Caleb knows is just for him. 

He gets on the green in three, with a decent chip up that gives him a good chance for birdie, provided he can read the green well enough. He squats on the edge to look as Nick smacks his ball up out of the bunker his second had landed in. It bounces and then rolls, coming to a stop two feet behind the cup.

He smirks openly at Caleb as he walks up and Caleb feels a flare of heat in his chest, competitiveness and desire warring. It hits him that what he wants most is to play against Nick during the day, and then take him to bed at night. The thought makes him inhale sharply, loud enough that Jared nudges him with his shoe. "You okay? Is it nasty?"

"Is - what?"

"The green, man."

"No, it's fine." Caleb tries to fix his expression into something less _want to bang the tour rookie forever_ and more _total birdie opportunity_. 

He's aware of Nick's gaze on him as he rubs the heel of his putter with his thumb, then turns the club over and curls his fingers around the grip. It's a six-foot downgrain putt. He's made longer; this isn't too bad. 

Caleb knows he's overthinking it even as he makes contact. The ball breaks left inches from the cup, and rolls down the back of the green all the way into the fringe. He hears Jared groan behind him. 

Nick gives him a sympathetic look. Then he puts his ball smoothly into the cup. 

"Don't worry, the horseshoe will get him," Jared says, and Caleb has to laugh.

*

  
On Friday after the cut, Nathan sits down next to him in the hotel bar. "I saw the specialist after I flunked out this afternoon," he says, his voice low. "I'm going to have to take the next few weeks off and rest my shoulder if I don't want to fuck it up worse."

"That sucks, dude," Caleb replies, because what else can he say? He sips his glass of wine, slowly. He's not looking to get drunk tonight. It's nearly eight, and he's got to be in bed by nine-thirty at the latest, thanks to the early tee time.

Nathan stares at the row of bottles along the back of the bar. "I need to tell you something," he says, after the silence has stretched long enough for the pianist in the corner to play through two songs. 

Caleb keeps his eyes on the back wall as well. "Is it about your unconventional relationship status?"

"Possibly."

Caleb waves down the bartender and starts to order Nathan something straight up, but Nathan shakes his head and asks for water instead. "Vicodin," he sighs.

"Ouch."

"Yeah."

"So?"

"So I don't really know how it even happened," Nathan mutters. "Me and Jessie and Joe. Well, I know how it happened with Jessie, but..." He stirs the straw around in his glass. "We were just hanging out. A lot. And Joe, he doesn't even drink much."

"You don't have to tell me," Caleb offers, because this is already awkward.

Nathan shrugs. "I just don't know what will happen if I have to sit out the whole fucking Tour."

Caleb can't even imagine that. The thought is like white noise in his head, buzzing and burning. He ignores his suddenly shaking hands to take another drink of his wine. Then he looks over at Nathan and asks, "Is this why Joe's been slacking less on the course with Nick?"

"Yeah, I think so."

And now Nathan's injury is throwing everything up in the air. "For what it's worth," Caleb says quietly, "I get it."

Nathan clinks their glasses together with a small smile. "Thanks."

 

9.

>   
> _Going into the last round here at Colonial, Johnson leads the board after posting a sixty-five yesterday. He's trailed closely by Caleb Followill and Nick Jonas, who are both only a shot back and no doubt looking to make some moves today. A win for Johnson this afternoon would put him second in points for the FedEx Cup behind Mark Wilson._ \- PGATour.com

  
Standing on the fairway at the 18th, Caleb watches Nick line up his shot and thinks, _You can give him more time._

Nick's drive goes left, but it's only just off the fairway thirty yards from Caleb's, in no way unrecoverable. It's Johnson who might be smoked, his ball somewhere in the trees. 

"It's fucking hot," Jared mutters as they stand there, waiting for Dustin to locate his ball and make a decision on playability. 

"Yep." He lights a cigarette. They watch two course officials go past into the trees. After another few minutes, Johnson takes the penalty and goes back to the tee, but it's too late, his confidence has been rattled. 

"Wedge?" Jared asks, and Caleb nods. He could probably get a few more yards out of an iron, but he's already decided that he's going to lose this for Nick. The wedge shot lands him just in front of the green, still with a decent chance at birdie if he suddenly decides that this is insane.

Nick's iron carries him up onto the green, ten feet from the pin. Caleb knows he's not changing his mind. Behind them, Johnson's drive has landed him square in the middle of the fairway. 

Caleb chips to the back of the green. Nick glances at him, his gaze considering, then crouches down to check the line of his putt. There's a roar from the crowd as he sinks it, and moves into the lead. 

Johnson's iron shot lands on green to the left of the hole, but rolls slowly back down the front of the green before being stopped by the thicker fringe. 

Caleb looks at the line of his putt for a good thirty seconds, then taps it just slightly too hard, and the ball curves around the cup and rolls to a stop three feet on the other side. That's par, and Johnson is already at par; he can't win it even if he chips in.

He doesn't.

Caleb taps his in, then moves to the side for Johnson to do the same. Nick looks stunned. 

"Good job, kid," Caleb says to him, shaking hands as the cameras snap, and he can tell Nick is struggling to keep from saying something. "Later," Caleb whispers, and Nick nods and smiles, mostly for the photographers. Caleb's not fooling anyone - Nick knows exactly what he did. 

When the press has decamped and most of the spectators have wandered back out to the parking lot, Nick meets his eyes across the media tent and jerks his head towards the course. _Now_ , he mouths. 

Caleb elbows Jared in the side. "I'll find you later, I'm gonna..."

"Yeah."

He follows Nick from the tent. They walk through the trees to avoid the greenskeepers out fixing the divots, and he feels Nick's fingers drift over the back of his hand, then grip his firmly, hard enough that it's almost painful. "What was that, Caleb?"

"That was you, winning."

"But I wasn't -"

He shakes his head. "Don't, Nick."

"You lost a tournament for me," Nick says in wonder. "You lost on _purpose_. Why?"

Caleb shrugs, looking at the sunset as sharp lines of light break off the left-side water hazard. "I guess I don't want you to go anywhere. For a while. And even if - if what we're doing stops being enough, I still want to play against you every week."

Nick squints at him and he amends, "Well, almost every week."

"I thought the accepted standard was to _win_ things for the other person." Nick grins as he says it.

"This ain't a carnival," Caleb replies, elbowing him. "But I could probably win some for you, if you wanted. And you know you're making yourself the goddamned girl in this, so if you wanted to just be my tour wife..."

Nick punches him in the arm and threatens to push him into the water hazard, but his face is lit up with the orange flare of the day's last sunlight, pleased and slightly flushed, and Caleb knows without a doubt that he's willing to lose a thousand tournaments as long as Nick never stops looking at him like this.


End file.
